


Just Leave Me Your Light

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-29 02:11:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3878392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A what-if scenario, what if Aramis had missed the awning outside the window? (Coda fic for 2x06)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Leave Me Your Light

**Author's Note:**

> Limited descriptions to avoid spoilers, but this is a short little piece and mostly a means to try to work through a bit of a writer's block. Based off a prompt from JL.

It’s strange that it took him this long to cry. Aramis used to always tease him for it – how emotional he could be, how he teased because it was easier than having to admit to one another the reason Porthos could be so emotional, the reason why he hunched into himself, felt the tension snap down along his spine like a rope pulling taut. Porthos cries and Aramis does not. It’s how it is. 

And yet, this time, he can’t even cry. He can’t even react. He can’t even think of anything. 

It isn’t until the coffin is lowering down into the ground – so reminiscent of a funeral so many months ago, a fake one then – that Porthos turns to his side, just as he always does, to speak around his tears—

And Aramis isn’t there. 

Athos and d’Artagnan are across the way, both looking at him rather than at the coffin, and he could be standing with them if he wished it but he doesn’t wish it, he doesn’t. He can’t. He’s too used to one person by his side in these moments, and this time—

A strange feeling, then, that he has to remind himself that Aramis is dead. There’s no one standing there at his side, no one there to tell him he’s not really dead. That it’s a joke. No _there there_ , no pat on the shoulder. It’s too quiet. 

There’s a crisp breeze through the air today, a juxtaposition to the relative warmth of the last month. His hands are slack at his sides. He keeps, instinctively, glancing – searching him out. It hurts, more than anything else. More than he could ever think it could. 

It’s funny. He always envisioned that Aramis would die by some kind of battle, each of them falling one by one at each other’s sides. Blood and victory, glory and praise. One last, bloody-toothed smile before they all fell down and went to whatever the afterlife might have for them. He always pictured Aramis falling in fierce battle, victory ripped from his lips only by necessity, only because he expelled the very last dredge of his strength and stamina. Turns out it’s his kind heart that did him in. Turns out it’s bullshit with nobles and vengeance that has nothing to do with Aramis. Just like that. He falls and he’s gone. 

Because he asked for mercy for others. Because he is kind to all but himself. 

And what gave him the right, even. What gave him the right to die because he is too _kind_.

He remembers walking out of the building after the eclipse, after everything has gone to shit, after everything should be _good_ again. He remembers—

Shattered glass on the walkway, Aramis broken and lifeless – missed the awning above the door by only a foot or so. Porthos is never one who turns from blood and ruin – squeamish only with pain turned towards himself. But this – seeing Aramis like _that_ , is enough to make him almost turn away completely. He makes himself look. He makes himself stay. 

Aramis, covered in glass. 

Porthos remembers hurrying to him then, snarling out something before anyone else could say anything, Athos redirecting everyone to exit another way. He remembers reaching for Aramis, holding him in his arms even as his dislocated shoulder throbbed in protest – knows that if Aramis were alive, he’d scold Porthos for pushing himself, declare that it isn’t worth it, that Porthos should focus on himself—

He picks him up into his arms. He’s limp at first, but already twists up a little the more he carries him, grows less and less Aramis in his arms with each footstep. Still, he doesn’t cry then. He gets glass digging into his arms but that doesn’t matter. His shoulder throbs and that matters even less. Aramis’ head lulls from side to side until Porthos adjusts him and presses his broken face against his shoulder to keep him still. Any other day, he’d feel the flutter of breath against his neck. He’d feel something. 

He carries him home for the last time, holds him for the last time. He has the excuse, at least, to hold him one last time. 

Now he stands at his funeral and he can’t even be angry with him. His arm is wrapped up to keep him from moving his shoulder and there is a dull, thundering ache lodged up inside his chest. He can’t breathe. He can’t see around the tears that only come now, days later, when he can’t get a final look at Aramis – can only see a wooden coffin slowly being buried beneath dirt. 

He ducks his head, his breath shuddering out of him—

 

 

 

 

— and he wakes up with a startled gasp, turns onto his side, and there’s Aramis curled up at his side. He’s shaking, he can hardly hold up his hands, can hardly breathe. But Aramis’ head is bandaged and he is breathing – and then he’s making a startled, sleepy sound when Porthos pulls him so forcefully into his arms that it surprises him awake. He’s crushed to Porthos’ chest, who doesn’t even flinch when his shoulder protests the sudden movement, so desperate to feel him. So desperate to banish away the dream. So desperate to hold him. 

“Porthos,” Aramis murmurs, sleepy but concerned, and Porthos hugs too tight and Aramis makes a soft sound of pain, squirming in his hold. When he speaks again, there is a definite whine to his voice, “Porthos…” 

Porthos lessens his hold and his shoulders relax a little, reassured – a dramatic Aramis is a healthy Aramis. He’s known that for years. Aramis in pain is a silent, withdrawn Aramis. When he begins to whine, when he begins to squirm, it means more than anything else that he will _live._

“Sorry,” he murmurs, slides a hand down his back and leans into the touch of Aramis’ hand when it finds his cheek. He breathes out shakily. “Go back to sleep.”

“How can I, when I’m brutalized even in bed?” Aramis teases around a tutting click of his tongue, again going for dramatic – perhaps subconsciously understanding the slight slump of Porthos’ shoulders, the way he slowly sinks in against him with each dramatic sigh. 

“Sorry,” Porthos says again, wishes he could tease back – but he’s looking at Aramis in a wild-eyed stare. Desperate to see him, every little twitch of his mouth, blink of his eyes. Aramis. Aramis alive. “You should go back to sleep.” 

It’s too late now, though, because Aramis lets out a long-suffering sigh and hooks an arm around Porthos’ shoulders, painfully gentle against the injured one. “Athos is right – you are a bit of a bull, aren’t you?” 

Porthos grunts – reaches up and touches his face, thumb sliding down along the line of his jaw, pushing back into his hair – mindful of the bandages. He can’t stop. He doesn’t care. He so rarely, so very rarely, gives into the crushing needs he feels but in this moment it is overwhelming – the need to hold him close, to know he’s alright. To hold him. 

Aramis closes his eyes and sighs again. He leans further against him, his smile light and playful, gentled by his sleepiness. “I suppose I don’t get to sleep anymore. I have to comfort my brute of a man.” 

“I don’t…” Porthos starts, but Aramis kisses the tip of his nose and whispers out something like _brutes never let the pretty ones sleep_ and it coaxes a relieved little smile from Porthos’ mouth. 

Porthos almost says something stupid – something like, _if you’re touching me then I know you’re alive_ , something that would make Aramis laugh to hide the way his eyes go sad, disguising the gentle way he’d touch him, again and again, to reassure him – _yes, yes, I’m here. I’m here—_

He feels prickly and overwarm, unable to hide the raw, pained look on his face that finally prompts Aramis to sigh out and relent, pressing their foreheads together. 

“What happened?” Aramis whispers.

“You died,” Porthos says – because he’s never been one to lie, especially not to Aramis – and it’s worth it for the way Aramis breathes out and his fingers card through his hair, curling up along his scalp and rubbing small circles with his thumbs. Touching him. Alive. 

It’s all too fresh. Aramis only fell from the window a few days ago. He hasn’t been able to sleep since then. Aramis, on the other hand, has seemed lighter and happier, curling up against Porthos’ side every night like it is natural, like the bandages in his hair are an accessory more than necessity. 

“You died,” he says again, hates that his breath hitches. 

“But I am alive,” Aramis whispers out, his lips ghosting against his, their noses bumping in what could be comical if Porthos weren’t so desperate to breathe him in. “I lived. All is well.” 

Porthos nods the barest bit, keeps his eyes open so he can look at him – finds Aramis blink his eyes open and looking back at him. “I won’t believe you’re dead until I see it for myself.” 

He remembers seeing him down on the ground, surrounded by glass. He blinks a few times to banish that dream. 

“You have seen me ‘die’ quite a number of times, I suppose,” Aramis muses. 

“Too many,” Porthos says – because he would never believe Aramis dead until he saw the body with his own eyes, but the staunch refusal to believe it isn’t just blind faith, it is protection, it is an armor he wears because the idea of entertaining losing his family is unbearable, unacceptable. 

“I’m here,” Aramis murmurs against his mouth as he kisses him again and again. Again and again. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull away. “I’m here.” 

“Yes,” Porthos says in almost a sob, tearing up again.

“You’ve got me,” Aramis whispers against his mouth. 

If this is a dream, too, then Porthos hopes to never awaken.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I can be found at my [tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/).


End file.
